


Far From Home

by nimrodcracker



Series: a blinding flash [13]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Assasinations, Bunker Hill, Canon-Typical Violence, Deliveries Gone Wrong, Gen, Railroad Subterfuge, Stakeouts, West Coast Commentary on East Coast Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 00:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15255294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: She arrives in Bunker Hill to deliver a package - but lands herself in the middle of crossfire between the Railroad and the Institute.





	Far From Home

**Author's Note:**

> i love fallout crossovers!

East Coast's a weird place, she decides. Chilly weather and strange folk ain't the worst of it, and she's glad she finds some chow that ain't seafood or stew in this caravan hub someways off Diamond City.

Savoldi roasts her maize just right, kernels browned but not burnt. She takes a bite. Not spicy enough, she thinks. So she eats 'em corn in one hand and jalapeño pepper in another. Makes Savoldi's eyes bug out, too. Seems like Easties know shite 'bout spicy food. She doesn't leave the Mojave without a few peppers in her satchel, and she thanks herself for that every breathin' hour.

For nostalgia's sake, she blows thirty caps on an bottle of sarsaparilla that she can get for half back home. Better than puffin' on a cancer stick, anyhow. She's gotta cut down for her health. Same went for glugging down hard drink.

She hopes the sugar can knock sense into her brain, too. She's a package to deliver to someone here, sealed and all, but with only a sentence of instructions. Block letters, fading ink on crinkled paper.

 _for the one who follows the freedom trail_.

Old Man Nash had entrusted it to her, 'cause the sender - nah, he ain't and couldn't say - insisted on a courier most loyal and could handle 'emselves in a fight. So, package fell to her, first thing in the mornin' when she walked into the Express lookin' for packages she could deliver durin' her jaunt East for Cass.

What had the old man said, too?  _Sit at the bar, look natural. The recipient will find you._

Baffling. Her thoughts wander.

Sunset's beautiful, she thinks. Colours blend nicely with each other. If only Cass was here to watch it. Redhead acts like she ain't down for such prissy things, but that's just her tough girl exterior. More to her than whiskey and hard knocks. No different than her other friends. Inside, they're all hurt 'n sad, but ain't everyone?

Sun's halfway down when someone ambles to the counter. Savoldi greets them with a smile and they call 'im by his first name. Joe, it. Fellow must be a regular, then.

Eola glances at 'em out the corner of her eyes. Thank you visor of her cap for hidin' her roving gaze.

She's young. Redhead, just like Cass. Kitted out in a mechanic's coveralls, unlike Cass. Tools 'n more strapped to her belt, but Eola spots the scars and blemishes where cloth ain't cover 'em. Faint on her pale skin, but Eola's one good eye sees all. Seen better than with two, actually. Guess they ain't wrong about learnin' to compensate, but she thinks there's nothing to compensate for.

Anyway. This ain't any greenhorn mechanic. Baby-face and all, but kid's been through tough shit. She wears it on her skin.

Instinctively, Eola straightens from her slouch - and relaxes again. Unnecessary. The kid ain't a threat to her. Her brain's hotwirin' again. Maybe she really should chitchat with Doc Usanagi the way she got Betsy to. Something 'bout dealing with… trauma?

She doesn't buy that, though. She's still kickin', so she turned out okay. Right? Gannon ain't thought so, but even he's got his own ghosts too.

Maybe she should drag  _everyone_  along the next time she heads for Freeside.

"Hello." The young 'un says, turning to her. Eola tips her field hat in greeting. Smiles, too. Kid smiles even wider. "I haven't seen you here before. Where are you from?"

"Out West. Near the Mojave," Eola rasps. Kid hasn't ordered anything; her gloved hands twitchy on the tabletop. Fingers blackened at the tips from dirt, tap-tap-tapping on the surface. Nervous.  _About what?_

Eola nods at her own sarsaparilla bottle. "Get ya a drink?"

Kid's eyes bug out. She starts wavin' her hands, wavin' a  _no_. "Oh, I don't drink. Thank you for the offer, however. I just like talking to new people, you know? You learn so much from asking."

 _Sarsaparilla ain't alcohol_ , Eola thinks, but shuts her mouth. "I get ya. You're a brave 'un. Not all folks like talkin'. Some'll punch you for botherin' 'em."

Kid chuckles with a smile. Looks away though. "You're not one of them, I hope."

Eola shakes her head. "Seen too much to be nobbed 'bout that." Sarsaparilla ain't fizzy enough, so she swirls it for a bit. Swallows down some after. Too tasty not to  _aah_  in contentment. Helps to soothe her nerves. Talking is still difficult sometimes, to new people especially. "You a local?"

"Not really. I'm from up north, Capital Wasteland. Came here five years ago."

 _Bingo_. Kid smells of concrete and wet underground, more than the salt of the sea. Smells like these linger on skin, despite the years. "Ya ask me, East Coast's all the same. Rain, rain, and more rain. I miss the Mojave sometimes."

"Actually, I bet everyone says the same thing. I can see myself saying how blistering the West Coast is, you know?"

Eola hums, quirks her lips too. Kid's got a fair point. "Why leave home? Crossing lands ain't easy."

"I, uh- I travelled here because of work. I work for this escort service. We're- bodyguards for our clients, and we take them wherever they need to be taken. There's a lot of demand for our services, you see."

"A caravan guard?"

"So  _that's_  what they call it."

"Yeah. 'm a courier, so I escort packages around. Not people. Letters, mainly." Kid only looks up now, scratches the side of her neck with nails. All bitten edges. A quirk of a nervous wreck. "You like your job?"

"I do. It's tough sometimes, but I pull through."

"Raiders? Occasional Deathclaw on the roads?"

"Yup, but I don't really do the legwork. That's for the heavies and runners." Kid suddenly swivels on her stool, tied hair swishin' along, her back now against the bar. Able to see the rest of the town from her spot. But she doesn't move like that in a rush.  _Slowly_. To look natural. "I help out at HQ with logistics. It's safer, definitely, but not always easier. We all have our difficulties for our various jobs."

Eola knows why the kid turned. Been feelin' eyes on her back some minutes ago. Gettin' sarsaparilla was a pretext to eyeball her surroundin's. She sees the same with a quick glance when she watches the kid control her breathing, just to mask her agitation.

Got some vagrant wedged in the shadows between two wood huts; lidded eyes and fingers wrapped around an inhaler of Jet. Vagrant not quite, she knows. Not havin' that lethargy typical to wasters survivin' on barely enough.

"Sounds tough," Eola says between swigs of sarsaparilla. No idea how to tell the kid 'bout their guest, let alone get paper-

 _Ah_. Sarsaparilla bottle label. "Hope you don't stop lovin' your work."

Thankfully, the kid swivels back. Looks like she just ate a load of Brahmin crap, though. Creased eyebrows and a frown that's wrinklier than a Brahmin's behind.

"Like I said, it's hard sometimes, but I know that I'm doing good work. Seeing how thankful they are? Makes everything worth it." Kid leans in when Eola scribbles on the bottle label, her pencil from a flannel pocket a-scratchin' against paper.

The kid's mouth half-opens with a reply… which doesn't tumble out, once she sees the note.

_we're being watched. waster in the shadows._

"Nice map," the kid dodges instead. Good save. "Where are you headed next? Jamaica Plain? Trade that happens there is second only to here. Variety and quality? Assured."

"Yeah. Caravaneer friend o' mine has me scoutin' the 'wealth for trade connections." Eola slides label and pencil over. "Where's Jamaica Plain again?"

"Here." Kid circles nothing on the label for show. "D'you need directions? Or-" kid glances up, evening glow glintin' off the lenses of her goggles round her neck. "Actually, shall I write them in case?"

Kid's laughter is melodious; Eola finds herself smilin' along. Reminds her of her little sister, actually. Thinking that makes her chest ache somewhat, 'cause she can't go home. "Okay."

"So here's how…" the kid rambles on.

Eola doesn't catch most of it. Only gets bits of streets and raider hotspots to avoid, even if she's staring right at the words as they're written out. Brain fog's been bad these days. Can only focus on how the kid's handwriting is embarrassingly neat. Straight, ordered strokes to her closely-packed scrawls.

_I know. Meet me south of Bunker Hill, in the alley with the broken fusion generator? Say, in an hour. I might need your help. And I'll explain everything._

_Keep the label if you'll be there._

"…right there. Think you can get there?"

"Yea." Eola pockets the bottle label in her jeans. Hand brushes against her holstered Colt as she pulls away; her fingers linger on cool metal. Barrel might need some oilin' after tonight. Damp Commonwealth weather's worse than arid dryness of the Mojave - sand cleans better than water.

She watches the kid, focused gaze and twitchy fingers. Clasps a gloved hand on her shoulder eventually. Kid looks like she can use some encouragement.

"Thank you." The kid smiles weakly.

Eola tips her field hat before walking off. Stops after a step, though. Turns back to face the kid, suddenly realising something. "Never caught your name."

The kid hesitates, still. Throat bobs along on cue. "Jen."

"Eola. Friends call me Six."

"Six." She says it slowly. Like knowin' it ain't just a nickname picked on the fly. "There's a story behind it, right?"

Eola can't smother the smile from a damn nice feeling. "One day I'll tell ya over grub."

With that, the Courier walks away hummin', certain that she's found her package.

* * *

She's had her taste of sneakin' around.

Her stint with 1st Recon was her first rodeo. Then, when courier work brought her to dangerous roads, sneakin' ensured she wasn't chewed out by deathclaws and the like.

Sneakin' in the Madre, though. A rodeo she doesn't want no more. Can't remember much but flashes of damp mold in her nostrils, and bright lights that keep her awake at night. Better that way. Better forgotten than burned to the back of her eyelids. Can't take more stress, too. Cass been notin' her white strands in her hair, tugging on 'em with laughter in her tone but Eola ain't deaf to the worry the redhead caravaneer tries to smother.

Times like these, her fingers twitch for a cigarette to roll between her fingers. Warm to her skin, end crackling with a bit of light. Helps to chase away the cold night, her sweaty palms.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she lingers in the shadows of a balcony, staking out their rendezvous of an alley on the back of a promise. Kid told her not to be discreet, intentionally definitely, but she ain't taking chances. Not when she can.

Hitches her field cap bit higher up her eyebrows, uncomfortable with how it digs into her forehead. Her eyepatch and its string is bad enough. Scoping out the place in the dark with a homemade rifle she'd brought on a hunch ain't the most fun thing to do in East Coast humidity. Then, there's that tingle to a storm that's comin', too - hair on her arms on end, reachin' for something that she can't see.

Kid's late. She can't do much but wait.

Only sea and wind she hears. Waves lapping up the walls of the pier, wind snagging on storefronts and debris. Broken fusion generator is quiet. Otherwise, it'd be annoyin' with its rattlin'. Silence don't bother her like it used to - she's relieved. Used to hear the tick-tick-tick in every quiet, the thrummin' whine of a bonesaw in every pause of breath. Messed her head quite bad, the absence. The nothin'. Because there ain't quite nothin', only the prelude to  _something_. Pip-Boy used to belt out tunes from Mr New Vegas or whatever's on air to help her deal, but these days, knob's cranked down low.

It's progress.

Then, she hears footsteps shufflin' on concrete.

She peeps into her scope. Drags it from one end of the alley to another, crowdin' out the figures that ain't app-  _ah._

Kid saunters into view, not a hair touched on that ginger mop tied into a loose ponytail. Looks around like she's lost too, and Eola smiles, teeth showing. Kid's either good at feignin' or… really is as green as she lumbers around, footfalls heavy and ungainly like a Brahmin.

Bless her soul, she has a plasma pistol at least, cocked 'n ready. Neon green of the chamber woulda been bright in the dark, but it's taped over with duct. Lord, she's definitely fishin' for the threat.

That's just a pair of footsteps. Eola hears  _two_. So where th' hell's the other one?

She sets aside her rifle, slings it back around her chest. Useless in the dark, anyway. Fishes out her Colt, cocks it the same time thunder roars above. Balcony gives her a line of sight of the entire alley, but not its side-alleys leading out. That's where their  _friend_  should be makin' their entrance soon.

Sweat drips down her back. Something's not quite right. She ain't about to show herself without dealin' with their friend - but there ain't no hint of 'em anyway. If they turn out to be one of those, them.. what did the wasters call 'em -  _Coursers_  - then…

The kid stops after a while. Sits her bum down on the pavement just as lightning flashes, paints the walls white for a moment.

That's when Eola spots 'em. Lingering in the side-alley behind the kid. It's the waster from before alright, week-old scruff and tired eyes familiar in the bright of a lightning flash. The silenced Magnum they hold ain't, though.

They raise it. Aims it fast, barrel rising to the kid's head - but Eola's faster. Gets 'em in her sights and pulls the trigger even before they're done aiming.

The kid screams. The wall behind her now has a nice splatter of crimson. The body? Slumped on the floor in a heap, blood tricklin' down on the rags they wore.

The kid turns. Takes in the body with wide eyes. " _Goodness_."

Eola vaults over the railing. Tries to, actually. Bones of hers creak like rusty hinges. At her age, landing on her feet without shatterin' both her kneecaps is a goddamn achievement. It's why she grins as she walks over to the kid. Even if she's wobblin' like a shack in a sandstorm.

Kid perks up on seein' her. Kinda weird how her face hasn't ripped yet from the effort. "Hello! You made it."

"Don't break my promises. Woulda been rude."

"Thanks for saving my life." Jen smoothes her coveralls after she holsters her pistol. Shudders out her breaths, too. Least she isn't rattled enough to piss in her pants. Real hardy kid - Eola's proud. "I knew he'd tail me - he'd been tailing others too, but never moved against them. I guess I was the unlucky first. And would've died, if you hadn't done your sneaky stuff, and- and blasted his head open." Jen wobbles on her feet, huffs out her discomfort. " _Wow._ "

Eola waves off the praise with a smile. Never had been comfortable with compliments. But she tryin'. Offers the kid gum, somethin' to chew and somethin' to distract from the terror, but Jen shakes her head. So she pops one into her mouth, lets the flavour swirl on her tongue awhile. Lacks the kick nicotine gives her, but a whole shiteload healthier.

She nods at the body. "So who's that?"

"Institute. You can tell from the equipment and their methods. Thorough. Clean. Quiet. Raiders prefer a bloodbath, while Brotherhood… would be obnoxiously in uniform. Anyhow, I- I don't know why they're after me. Or us. Sometimes they like to make wasters disappear, replace 'em with synths. Supposedly to plant Institute spies in the Commonwealth. Freaky, right?"

As Jen prattles on -  _what a precious kid_  - Eola pats her pockets, then fiddles inside her satchel. Frowns at how the package isn't where she thinks it is, and- finds it. Wedged between trade manifests and a sales contract for 'wealth Gwinett that Cass wants exclusive distribution rights to in the Mojave.

 _Better not be piss-poor ale or the East truly is as fucked as their weather,_  she hears Cass in her head, and she feels mirth bubblin' in her throat at the memory.

"Ooh, what are you holding?" Jen hops closer. "That loo-" her eyes bulge "- _is_  what I was waiting for. Goodness. So you're the package. Well, kind of. Mostly the letter you're supposed to deliver to me. No wonder I had a feeling about you."

"Same." Eola hands over the letter. "Had you at 'escorting'."

"Thanks. We'd- I'd best get going. Since I'm made already, and that gunshot will surely attract raiders. There's a bunch of them holed up a few blocks down." But the kid stays rooted, looks to her and the letter, once and twice. Thunder in the skies ain't shake her much.

Makes one wonder what her story is, fo' sure.

Eola smiles at her, soft. "Yea?"

Jen's lip quivers. Looks down, and - is that a  _blush_? "You're nice. I'd love to see you around in the wastes, but I know this isn't your home. So if you do hang around, I'd love to talk, y'know? You know where to find me, anyway. Like, you figured out who I was before I did for you! That takes brains. And-"

Eola curls a hand around Jen's arm. This ain't a conversation for back alleys in the dark. Ain't helpin' that she feels rain a-pitter on her skin, little drips of an incoming storm that's still-so-weird to her Mojave mind. "Jen."

Kid flinches. Sighs after, relaxing under her touch. "I'm babbling again. Sorry."

"It's nothin'." Six watches her, looks at the hard lines on a soft face. Not seen as much years as herself, but seen much, definitely. It's the grief. Shadows in her eyes, hard to miss. " _You're_  a good kid. May our paths cross again. You got friends in the Mojave if you need us."

Jen's cheeks redden, looks like she's gonna cry. Lord. Six ain't know how to comfort others. Only can do hugs and hope they stop eventually.

But the kid doesn't, thankfully. Only rubs her eyes, mumbles out more gratitude. "I'd love that."

If everythin' goes as planned, this ain't just be their first nor last meeting.

* * *

_Journal entry dated November 11th, 2288_

 

> Would've been a bad idea to take V along. East Coast Brotherhood's worse than back home. Think she'll march up to their airship to give their Elder an earful and get us both killed. Heard they're violent xenophobes interested in hoarding tech for themselves only.
> 
> I found them. People risking life and limb for their synth fellows.
> 
> They're good folks. Could use a hand with  _escorting_. Wonder if Cass needs extra hands for caravans.


End file.
